Immortal love,
Whose essence is this pregnant warmth of air,
O hear my prayer,
And tune my fervent hymn as high above
All songs in rapture as thou, sovereign Love,
Art high above the other gods in power.
For whatsoever things on earth are fair
Are thine: thou giv'st the flower
Its colours and its sweet,
And in the foot-prints of thy silent feet
The daisies star the prairie, and the shower
Is thine, that steeps the verdure of the mead;
By thee the steed
Is beautiful, and every noble breed
By thee remains to ages that succeed;
For thee the antelope is fleet;
For thee the horned bull is strong to breast
The swollen torrent, bellowing to his herd;
The painted bird
For thee hath music and to thee addressed;
And the brief sadness of his dying note
Is for thy bitter absence and thy pain;
Thine is the rapture of his swelling throat,
And thine my strain.
O fill me once again
With thy lost sweetness now! As a slow wave
Laps the dank hollows of a seaworn cave
In deepest calm, and with prophetic sigh
Repeats the ceaseless rhythm of the storm,
So let thy pulses warm
Mine inmost soul with high
Hope of the things to be, or wake a vanished form.
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